


Until Recently

by Cers



Series: Essek Week 2020 [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: C2E91, C2E94, C2E97, Coda, Essek Week, Gen, Internal Dialogue, Light Angst, Prompt: Loneliness//Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23400262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cers/pseuds/Cers
Summary: "So you live alone, huh?""I do."
Relationships: The Mighty Nein & Essek Thelyss
Series: Essek Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683388
Comments: 16
Kudos: 74
Collections: Essek Week





	Until Recently

_“So you live alone, huh?”_

You did. You do. In three varying towers of dark granite stone. Planted in the ground, stable, sturdy. Your own. 

Solitude is _safe_ , you can mitigate the risk. So you tell yourself, anyway. Research is your own- it's private. Personal. You won’t be discovered, living on your own. 

There’s no chance of disruption. Of interruption. Disturbance. You can work in peace, lose yourself to your studies until you’re done. Until ready to unleash your findings to the world. 

Research, development- it’s an art. It’s _intimate_. You need your own space- both at home and in your head to devote wholly to it. It requires the peace to grow, evolve, develop. Live. 

It’s its own character, its own personality. Your religion, your ideology. The pursuit of knowledge is your goal, your desire, your _passion_.

Your curse. 

It requires unending space on its own, taking up much of your life.

All of it, in fact. 

So yes, you live on your own. 

All alone. 

_“I do.”_

* * *

_“Hey Essek? How come all of a sudden you want to talk to us? Like … we’re friends?”_

She rambles further about not minding, how happy she - they? - is that he’s taking an interest. Her voice is sweet, unassuming. Happy as a song. You like the way she says your name. It’s fond, familiar. 

But you’re too fixated on her previous words- _Like we’re friends._

You were. _Are_. And… you suppose… maybe it’s not such a bad thing to admit. 

So you tell her. Them. All seven of them. Of living in Rosohna, the Firmaments,the Bastion your entire life. Of the restrictions, limitations, hardships that have socially crushed you. It’s the first time you’ve really...said it all out loud. 

It’s _a lot._

You feel a crack in your armour- the dam you have painstakingly erected over decades and years. 

(Who are you kidding? It started breaking weeks ago. With each ‘hey Essek!’ and each joke, and laugh. With a mess of ball bearings, and genuine fascination.)

_“Why trust us with your interests?”_

The dam cracks wide, and the trickle is now a stream . You are spilling your fears, your theories, your thoughts. All that which you have kept so close to the chest, covered by your dark, heavy mantle, and they spill from your lips as water. Dark, polluted, muddied water. 

And you admit to feeling...outcast. Outside. _Other_. Untrusting. Unworthy.

Lesser. 

Scared. 

Insecure. 

Obsessed. 

_Flawed_.

So yes. You do live alone. 

These foreigners, with their brazen words, and bolder actions, came crashing into your country, your kingdom, your nation’s throne room and turned your life upside down and it’s to _them_ of all people you give in to?  
  
You’ve been pulled, you’ve been threatened, become chaperone and guide for, tricked, pranked, laughed with, jested with, spoken with, taken an interest from, gifted by, genuinely thought of, invited in by, _accepted by-_

Why trust them indeed. 

_“Because I’m thankful to have met you.”_

These ridiculous people, with their strange ways, and even stranger habits. They frequently traverse dangerous terrain, seeking out trouble to end it. Quell it. Beget it. They’re eclectic, and odd, with a tree on their house. They’re colourful, and mismatched. Out of place, out of sorts. Not at _all_ suited to Rosohna society. They’re complete opposites to him, a stark contrast in _every way that matters._

(And every what that doesn't.)

And yet… 

_“You said an important part of what you do is ‘staying alone’. I think we all thought that too - before we met each other.”_

And yet… 

_“It’s true. Very lonely, all of us.”_

And yet…  
  
 _“We are … friends,_ now _.”_

And _yet_ -

_“I don’t know. I haven’t felt a kinship with...anyone. In a long time.”_

* * *

_“Is this friendship safe for you here?”_

Is it safe? In the cutthroat politics of the dens, or the crystalline prison that is court? In the side eye of the Cerberus Assembly who they all claim are cancerous and foul? In this house, with neighbours tittering, and muttering? Near the Ghostlands, and Barbed Fields- hallowed results of terrible ordeals? Is it safe, is it fair, to sit with them at their table in their house sharing their food breaking their bread and lie through your teeth at them about your past your history your crimes your schemes your sins and the _worst thing you’ve ever done_ \- ?

You hold his gaze, you silently _beg_ him to see the rotten core so deep within you. Decayed from the lies, the mould, the corruption warping you, contorting your actions and now they’ve gotten out of hand. See me, you implore, in this moment of _desperation_. See me for all that I am. See me, what I’ve done, who I have become, how weak I really am- 

Cast me aside, you _beg_ in a moment so infinite you feel like your soul (what’s left) has peaked through. I’m not worth it- this danger I put you in just by being near me. Please, see that, _know_ it. For you. For _them_. 

So you answer him. Admitted in pride. In shame. In realisation. He holds your gaze, your expression pleading for him to read you for the fallen one that you are. And he sighs. Not in resignation, not in dismissal. Not in horror or disbelief. But…

But in understanding. He _knows_. _He perceives you._

Maybe not all of you, maybe not the worst parts, but just enough to paint his eyes with concern. It’s enough. 

And you don't know whether that makes it better- or worse. 

_“Nothing I do is safe.”_

* * *

The next day, after the excitement and the sad revelation, they are moving again. Leaving, making plans and their next move. 

Beauregard is unwell, Nott is still reeling. Caleb is keeping most of his composure, and tends to his friends, but in doing so reveals a bit _too_ much-

The woman hanging on him, neck breaking out, sweat beading her dark skin, titters and chides him for it. He waves it aside.

It matters not, he says, for-

_“We are friends.”_

And she turns to you. Looking. Appraising. Judging. 

Her cobalt stare is pointed, guarded. Cutting.

And _still_ she says-

_“We are. We’re good friends. Aren’t we, Essek?”_

There’s no derision, no barbed meaning. She is suffering at the time, which attributes to her tone, but you feel she means true. 

And isn’t that just still a new sensation for you. Is this what it means to be friends? Being privy to such... _confidential information_ of your companions? How curious.

_“Apparently.”_

* * *

Then there’s an umbrella in your hand, shielding from the sun. It was unasked for, without prompt. Part of no transaction, no negotiation. Simply because Jester- his _friend-_ saw he was in discomfort. 

So you thank her. Once. Twice. And then just once more, like a prayer. You’re overselling it, you realise- but you can’t bring yourself to _care_. It was made, just for you, without expectation or price. It was honestly just because she was being so, so nice. 

Oh.  
  
Maybe _this_ was what it was to be friends. Giving without assumption of something in return. 

_That’s foolish_ , you think. You’ve been doing that already, wracking up all those favours…

That really, deep down and down, you know you probably won’t have to call in. Not with them. If there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s that they would help you in _an instant_ -

No. You can’t tell them. Things are too far gone already. It’s nearly over. Only a few more weeks and everything is righted again. You can suffer in silence. You’ve done it this long. Telling them of your deeds, your reasons, your justifications for everything they’ve worked so hard to stop-

It would be foolish. It would turn them away. You’ve just been granted their approval. Or maybe you already had it. To jeopardise that on a whim? All for an umbrella? To spill everything here and now to do nothing but be judged and disapproved?

No. You… like them too much. 

You can be selfish, just for today. 

_“Thank you, friend.”_

He says it without reaching out this time, mindful of the last when you flinched from his grasp. You’re grateful. You hate it. You _want_ to be tapped. To be held, and regarded, and touched, and _contact-_

But he makes a point of saying it to you. At you. 

‘ _Friend.'_

It’s a strange new title for you to behold. A new role to fulfill.

You never really realised how _heavy_ it would be to wear - unlike your mantle.

It is not a crushing weight, or an armoured one. No. It’s… grounding, almost. Like they would remind you of things down below more important than the sky-high ambitions you’ve set. Of the people who could be affected by your actions. And so you don’t burn your wings. 

It’s… secure, you decide. Still brand new, but hopefully you will be able to break it in with more time. Just let me wear it, you think, for a little bit longer. Let me take a bit more time to settle into it. _Please_.

Yes. You can be selfish. Just for today. 

* * *

Then they are there on the deck of a boat. And you’re stuck, statuesque. But they don’t know it’s you. They regard you with fondness and oh- this is new.

Now that you know them, you’re in on their tells. On their schemes, and their pranks, and little shared looks. They’re kind, and polite. And so at ease in this _heat_. 

You’re reminded that they at least thought of you, when you last suffered so. The company you currently keep had no similar inclinations.  
  
It’s the smallest difference. Insignificant, really, when you think about it. A gesture so simple, a thought so kind. Yet it means the world to you.

Then below the ship of the deck afterwards, you float- illusion gone- and discuss your next steps. 

You hate him, his presence. All he represents. The feeling is mutual, of that you can bet. You tell him as much, he just laughs it away. 

He riles you up, further and more. You just want to _leave_ , to follow the Nein down the docks. But back and forth you bicker, and then your newly-born ideals peak through. 

_“I’m surprised to see such_ _affection ...from such a previously_ cold _individual.“_

And he’s right. He is. You’ve definitely thawed. You finally flew high, and have very nearly burned. You’ve seen and realised the results of your scheme. Its consequences were far-reaching, much more than you wanted. But that had been a discarded collateral. Until they had shown up. they caught you just in time, and started pulling away from the heat.

You’ve changed, that is true. But- that might not be so bad. This new cocoon you are weaving from their loving words, gifts, and acts is forming round you, quite snug. 

Maybe _this_ is what friendship is. Strength from their presence, courage from their image. Yes. This is nice, You’ll keep this, you decide. So you draw up full height, floating and all, and spit at his figure with pure vitriol. 

_“Well, I’m surprised myself. Maybe_ you _should try friends sometime.”_

* * *

It lasts for a day, the high you ride. Before you’re at a party, then stunned, arrested, stopped. 

This is it, The Moment. All you have dreaded. It was nice while it lasted. You finally live to regret it. 

So you submit, and you spill. The dam is broken fully. They listen, and wait. They are taking it all in.

Out of all the predicted outcomes, all the foreseen fallouts, this was _not_ the predicament you thought you’d find yourself in. 

And here, in a barely lit room, with the taste of salt on your tongue, and ash in your mouth- with your eyes filled with tears, and ears full of _whys_ \- this is it. 

This is where you realise what friendship is. It’s accountability. It’s space. It’s listening, and performing.  
It’s a trial, every day, your actions on display. It’s deliberating and informing.

It’s a curse. It’s a blessing. 

They’re not laughing,  
or smiling, or joking around.  
They’re hanging on to you,  
on every single sound.  
It’s terrifying. It’s awful.  
And yet you can’t seem to stop it.  
So you carry on spouting,  
with your self-damning sonnet.  
  
 _“Hey Essek, do you-?”_

They have tried you,  
and judged you.  
Looking down at you now.  
With your excuses misguded,  
and closed eyes haunted.  
And in the end they decided,  
You were found _wanted_.  
  
 _"Ever get lonely-?"_

On this boat, surrounded,  
with a hope and a plea.   
Ironically, imprisoned,  
you finally feel _free_.   
  
_"In your solitude?”_

You feared the Royal wrath,  
the Assembly’s attention.   
But right here at the end,   
on the executioner’s block,   
the thing you craved _most,  
_ was a friend’s intervention. 

_“I didn’t think so.”_

It hurts, and it pains.   
And it tears through your soul.   
But in the end, you’re reborn.   
A man made near-whole.   
  
_"Until recently.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from the Essek Week tumblr (thank you Jak!!). Love to all y'all and to the ETFC <3


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